A Necessary Action
by NerdySkeleton
Summary: A journey with post-Reichenbach Mycroft Holmes who got to deal with everything his younger brother left behind after his, well, you know. But the situation changes when Sherlock Holmes returns alive somehow, and he requires Mycroft's help with dismantling The Spider's web. Rated T for swears, drug use, violence. Ongoing multichap.
1. Part 1

Mycroft Holmes really verily obviously was not well. He was not, by definition, all right or okay. His mask, though, and thank goodness, remained intact and no one knew just how unwell he was. Well, perhaps Anthea had suspicions when she saw her boss cutting out the rude articles discrediting his deceased brother from the papers. Mycroft had to deal with Mummy too. She sobbed for two days straight upon hearing _the news_ and then demanded her eldest son take her to see the grave, two-hundred-and-twenty-one B Baker Street, and then St. Bart's.

When Mycroft accomplished all that, he took a deep breath, got into his black car, ordered Anthea to practically cancel everything for the rest of the week ("…Yes, sir"). Mycroft returned to his own rather stately flat and sat simply in his bedroom in a plush chair and stared at the wall opposite. Barely moved, barely ate, drank, slept for the rest of the week.

It was one month later when he got a call from Dr. John Watson. It was a short and awkward call; John hated having to speak with him, Mycroft could tell, but he was cleaning out the flat and wanted to know if Mycroft wanted his brother's things. Only a few hours later, Mycroft arrived at 221B and surveyed the main room. Dusty, sad, dark.

John was in the kitchen. He leaned against the little table and had his arms folded over his chest. Mrs. Hudson made obnoxious noise behind him.

"Take what you want, Mycroft," John said simply and strongly. "Take it all for all I care. Easier for me and it's not like he'll shout at me for letting you have it all."

Mycroft watching him limp out of sight and up the stairs. He then turned to Mrs. Hudson who had tear stains running down her cheeks. Mycroft stepped carefully around the mess and picked up the violin and bow.

"Where is his case?"

"Under his bed was the last I saw of it," was Mrs. Hudson's timid reply. "I can fetch it for you." She tottered off but returned lugging the dusty, velvet-lined case with her. She graciously dusted it off while the older Holmes sifted through papers on the desk. He eyed the scratched mobile phone but decided John could certainly have it. Mycroft next noticed the large dictionary his brother had swiped from his childhood room ages ago.

"Thank John for me, will you, Mrs. Hudson?" he said as a goodbye. She nodded and Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile. He turned to leave but suddenly stopped. He, seriously, almost forgot about his plan. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded paper, Mycroft handed it to Mrs. Hudson, staying, "We have a storage facility reserved in our family name. If John decides he wants any part of my brother's things thrown out, call these men. They'll take care of it." Another tight lipped smile and he was off.

When Mycroft got home, he put the violin at the top of his closet and placed his reclaimed dictionary in his study. Anthea was at his front door a moment later and so Mycroft managed to forgot his dead brother for a while.

Three weeks later, though, Mycroft received another call from Dr. John Watson. Mycroft was in a meeting at the time, so Anthea graciously intercepted the call and took down John's message. Later, in the car, Mycroft asked casually what John had wanted.

"He says thank you for the storage, sir. And also he's moving out. And he's 'trying to forget him, so please don't call ever again.'"

"Yes, well," Mycroft muttered, sliding his eyes to gaze out the window, "thank you, Anthea."

"Would you like to schedule a last visit to Baker Street?" she asked calmly after a few minutes of pure silence. She knew she would want to at least; it couldn't hurt to ask him. She knew their relationship was probably the very definition of sibling rivalry and hatred and all, but Anthea thought at least it could be forgotten for one measly hour as Mycroft managed to say goodbye to the flat.

"No, that is perfectly all right."

Ah, too sentimental then.

"Yes, sir." A few more minutes. "Would like to have his violin regularly tuned?"

"No, thank you."

"Yes, sir."

"The folders for the developing boat were put away properly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent."

Anthea watched her boss and saw he was trying to forget too.

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**I know, upsetting subject matter and all. Sorry about that. I just still really love Mycroft even after all he did in TRF, so I wanted to write about it, clearly. I really hope you enjoyed this first part (even though it was short and quite plain) and leave me feedback by leaving a review if you feel the need to do so! **

**:D**


	2. Part 2

"I want to see his things," Agatha Holmes blurted, one fine afternoon when she called up Mycroft to come and see her. "I know they're not thrown out," she added, "and that they're with Damien's old things too."

"Well they're both dead, Mother, so it seemed appropriate," was Mycroft's nasty reply. He took a sip of tea and set his cup down.

"Don't talk like that, Mycroft, you'll upset me."

"Apologies, Mother." He took a moment to see that she wouldn't cry and continued, "Father's things have been collecting dust in that drafty room he purchased years ago; I thought their possessions could sit there together."

"But they always fought! They never got along."

"Neither of them got along with anyone else, Mother."

"What about Dr. Watson?"

"He has moved on," said Mycroft. "I have surveillance still tracking him and he is well."

John still hadn't recovered to a full extent and he still seemed to drag his feet around; so John's health, that was a lie, but Mummy didn't need to know that.

"You're all right, Mycroft, dear?" she asked softly, reaching forward to place one of her wrinkled hands over his. He nodded curtly and replied he was doing just the same as John.

That was the truth, but Mummy didn't need to know that.

Mycroft left many hours later than he intended to; Mother wouldn't drop the damn subject, really. From all her crying and begging to see how he lived, she seemed quite keen to keep discussing the whole affair.

And that was the thing: everyone still talked about it.

Everyone still treated Mycroft like he was a science experiment gone wrong and could implode at any moment. Officers under him tried their absolute best to use "sir" after everything little thing they said; Mycroft didn't need all the formality all the time, but it sometimes came in handy. Now he was just annoyed. Anthea too! Every moment the subject came up she tried desperately to steer it away so _oh, Mycroft wouldn't be hurt heaven forbid!_ Really, he was a grown man and could handle his brother's suicide as said grown man. All this skirting around topics and attempting to always make sure he was all right just made him more and more displeased.

If they all really wanted to make sure their boss was all right then they'd shut their moves and move on like almost everyone else in the world had!

Honestly, in the tight circle of "friends" Mycroft kept, they now seemed like would-be-therapists, always trying to keep him calm and make sure he wasn't suffering on the inside or some other nonsense relating.

It frustrated him, really, and he was ready to cast the whole lot of them completely out his sight and never deal with their petty little meager minds again.

Mycroft, thankfully, arrived at the Diogenes Club shortly after he left Mummy's. But unfortunately, Anthea was right on the steps, clearly waiting for him.

"Scotland Yard called us, sir," she said as her greeting, face set heavily, like they called with horrific news. "They need you with a few matters."

"Moving on to the other Holmes to see if he's as good as his brother was?" Mycroft asked, half-serious and half-joking. Anthea thought he was all serious; Mycroft didn't joke much, see.

Mycroft held the car door open for her and she slipped in, careful with her mobile phone. He stepped in after her and they, again, set off.

"Also Harry phoned, too," she muttered. "Wanted to know if your trip was still on."

"Tell him it's not," he responded. "I have other appointments, now, for those days."

"Shall I send a car for Mrs. Holmes that Friday, sir?" she asked, knowing quite easily what "other appointments" Mycroft now held.

"Yes, do."

"Yes, sir."

They drove on in silence for a while, stuck in traffic. They reached NYS and Anthea and Mycroft got out. She led the way and asked a clean-cut young man at the very entrance for a Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man there, introducing himself as Dimmock, gave a slight nod and asked for them to follow him. Anthea declined, saying this Lestrade wanted only Mycroft there.

This Dimmock character led Mycroft around turns and curves and large filing cabinets up multiple floors until they reached one that seemed promising, if nothing could be told from the slight "Here we are" Dimmock muttered as they came to the landing. He led the older Holmes through rows of desks and people in general and stopped at a closed door with "D.I. Lestrade" written on it on a plaque. The door opened before Dimmock could knock and a silver-haired, tired and still somehow cheery-seeming man was there. He thanked Dimmock and allowed Mycroft in.

"So you're his brother?" was the first thing he said, as he motioned for Mycroft to sit in the seat opposite his desk chair. He took his place too and moved some papers around.

"Was, I think, is more correct," Mycroft replied, setting his umbrella to rest against his legs.

Lestrade made a face like someone had physically burned him and clicked his tongue to try and find a good enough response for that.

"That was rude," Mycroft finally said, tired of watching this man struggle to find proper words. "Yes, I am Mycroft Holmes, his older brother. Someone told me you require me for a few things."

"Right, yeah!" He smiled and shook his head, like he was berating himself for forgetting. "We got, well, a letter addressed to, uh, your brother and thought maybe you'd want to open it."

He handed said letter to Mycroft. Clearly, in a deep black ink used with a fountain pen, written on the front of the envelope was his brother's name, written by a woman. Mycroft tore open the letter and pulled a thin, folded thrice paper and studied the writing.

Long and thin but still written with great care were the words, "_Sorry to hear about it. I'm having some trouble believing it myself. Condolences to you and that John Watson. I went out and bought a funny hat like his in a stupid sentimental fit a week ago. _

_Want it?_"

Mycroft looked up from the letter and saw Lestrade holding a deerstalker hat in his hands. He smiled and handed it to Mycroft slowly and watched the older Holmes twirl it around in his hands.

"This is really a stupid hat," Mycroft mused.

"It was the only one he found," Lestrade answered. "He wanted to protect his face and all from the press photos so he grabbed the first hat he could find. It ended up being pretty stupid, yeah."

Mycroft nodded and stuffed the letter in his suit jacket and made to stand up, saying, "Well, thank you, Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, that's not all we need you for, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade suddenly said, holding out his hand to stop Mycroft from leaving.

"What else is there?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "We, uh, we've had a body at the morgue in Bart's for, actually, way longer than we should, but we need a bit of, well, help identifying him."

"Why is that?"

"Well he's not in our records," Lestrade quickly explained, realizing that Mycroft probably didn't _want_ do identify a rotting corpse. "No one we know can help us. Our regular pathologist won't have anything to do with it."

"Miss Hooper?"

"Uh, yeah." Lestrade seemed surprised. "She's taken a 'leave of absence' for a while. I think she took his, er, suicide pretty hard. She definitely fancied him, that's for sure."

"You've been distraught ever since, too, Inspector," Mycroft said, his voice level and deep. He could tell from the way this man _refused _to get out a thought without a pause or a throat clearing. He didn't want to talk about it and he didn't want to think about it.

"Well, yeah, I guess I felt a bit responsible for him and, uh, it?"

"He jumped on his own accord, Inspector."

He scratched his silver hair and shrugged and sighed. "Yeah, I guess so. Can't really make anyone commit suicide. Well, I mean, besides that one serial killer a while back but-"

"Do you have a clue as to who this man may be, Inspector?" Mycroft suddenly asked, anxious to avoid Lestrade's blundering. He shrugged on his coat and picked up his umbrella, clearly ready to do this.

"Yeah, we've got a few ideas, but well, they seem kind of stupid at this point," the inspector said, leading Mycroft out of his office, thankfully taking the hint. "We phoned you and also John for a bit of help with this guy."

"Will John be there?"

"He said he'd be there, yeah." They raced briskly through the winding halls and out the building. "John's really not doing well, you know. Really hates him for doing it too. Kind of was a selfish thing to do, the bastard." He realized what he said the moment later and tried apologizing to Mycroft, noticing that he _was_ talking to the man's brother after all.

"I have to agree, Inspector."

Laughing uncomfortably, Lestrade dropped the subject after that.

They got to Bart's shortly thereafter. Lestrade took the long way around the building, seeming superstitious about the sidewalk, which thankfully didn't have that horrid bloodstain anymore. Pushing open the doors, Lestrade tried to lead the way, but Mycroft kept pace and they walked together, silently, passing floors and people and ignoring it all.

They got to the morgue doors, and yes, there was John, standing rigidly. He saw Mycroft and stood even straighter.

"Hey, John, thanks," Lestrade said, greeting him and shaking hands. "This'll only take a second, yeah?"

John nodded sharply and went in first. They approached a metal slab with a white body with a white sheet over it. The body, male, clearly, had short black hair. John stopped short and Lestrade almost bumped into him.

"That's him," he murmured.

Mycroft stepped forward and almost laughed. "Yes, yes, it is."

"Who?"

"James Moriarty."

Lestrade made a noise of understanding. He stepped back and pulled out his mobile and stepped out of the room then.

"Where'd they find him?" John asked almost silently, and it was probably to himself, but Mycroft answered anyway with, "He was on the hospital roof."

"How can you possible know that?"

"Gravel stuck in his nails and hair. Roofs aren't generally cleaned often, so he was most likely up there for a while. My brother's phone was only found a few hours later after his death, so someone went up to the roof to check for anything and well, they found a body. Jim Moriarty couldn't have been anywhere else because someone else would have found him, called the police, and the police would have gone out to look, causing a media frenzy with pictures of beloved children's storyteller _Richard Brook_ found everywhere. We would have known much sooner about the body if he was found anywhere else."

John stared at the pale face of the greatest criminal of all time. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned on his heel and left the building.

Lestrade came back in a few moments later and asked, "Are you sure this is James Moriarty? He's still not in our records either."

"Yes, it's James Moriarty," Mycroft said quietly. "John said so, too. Surely you'll trust his word?"

"Well I'd trust yours, too, sir."

"Don't call me 'sir,' Inspector."

"Uh, sure."

"How did he die?"

"This Moriarty guy?" Lestrade scratched his head, trying to remember. "Oh, shot to the brain through the mouth. Found the gun right next to him, fingerprints and all on it. Suicide, too."

Mycroft nodded and said a very abrupt and quick goodbye and left the morgue. He called Anthea, but she said she was already waiting for him. Mycroft exited the building, strolled right on the sidewalk Lestrade took such pains to avoid because suddenly the older Holmes brother was incredibly wary and incredibly suspicious of this whole affair. He almost laughed at the faded blood stain by his feet.

* * *

**Hello again! This part had a bit more stuff to actually happen in it and all, so A plus there. I wanna thank everyone who reviewed so far; they made me so happy to know that you that you liked it! **

**Leave a review if you want to! And sorry for any mistakes or typos here! **

**:D  
**


	3. Part 3

Mycroft sipped the remainder of what he was willing to drink from the tea the Diogenes Club. He set the cup down, gathered his things, and left promptly. Everyone he passed in the halls gave him a _very_ warm smile and a heavy nod as he walked by them; it made Mycroft want to throttle them all. Desperate to get out of there, he picked up his pace and exited the building to find, wonderfully, Anthea, faithful and on time as always, with his car and driver.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, quirking up one side of her mouth in a rather jaunty smile, which was her attempt to still be normal on this day. "You'll still go?"

"Yes, nothing has changed."

"Excellent, sir."

They slipped into the dark car and it zoomed away. The driver took the shortest way possible because he and Anthea knew that Mycroft just felt obligated to do this; really, he did not have other plans for that day because no one would make plans or meetings or calls with him. Apparently they wanted this to be his day of rest or something unbelievable like that.

The driver stopped outside the cemetery. Mycroft tore his gaze away from the spot on the car floor he had been staring at almost nonstop the whole ride and he mechanically dragged himself from the car. He started the walk to the grave.

He felt as if this whole thing was just a chore for him. The suicide, the cleanup (literally and metaphorically), taking care of the flat, his things, possessions, trying to find case files from the Yard that they needed back because they certainly weren't going to get solved _now_. It just all made Mycroft want to uncharacteristically groan and beat his head till his brain went numb with pain and sensory overload. He wanted to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes and play loud Beethoven symphonies and eat a chocolate cake, but the problem with that is that everyone else would _know_ he was grieving. Mycroft didn't think he would stop grieving until he himself died and he met up with his younger brother in some deep dark unforgiving pit of Hell. Probably he was there now (well, that is if Mycroft really believed in all that) with Mr. James Moriarty, being insufferable and annoying together.

He had (openly?) grieved that first week or so after the initial shock wore off and everyone was fine with that. Mycroft surely wasn't, though. Really, he _hated_ his brother. He always seemed to get off quite free when they were boys and with his big blue eyes and curly black hair everyone fawned over him and _he_ got the cookies and Mycroft didn't. Mycroft was the responsible child and got a job after going to university and making friends; he was right in the head. His stupid brother went off and passed school with probably some of the high marks in his class and then he wasted his life. Cocaine, cigarettes, alcohol binges! He _made up _a job because no one else would hire him. Mummy was proud that her son was working with the police force, but Mycroft was disappointed that his brother was high as a kite half those cases.

Mycroft stopped and stared. Well, damn, John was already there. Apparently John had heard him and turned around to glance who was there. His face fell even deeper and he turned back to the grave. Mycroft saw obnoxiously bright sunflowers by the dark headstone.

"Interesting choice of flowers, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, deciding to face it and walk forward to stand next to his brother's only friend.

"All the other ones were rotting," John offered as an explanation quietly. He shifted his feet and squared his jaw.

"How long have you been here, John?"

"An hour, maybe."

"You were always so dedicated and none of us knew why."

"Yeah, I didn't know why, either, I guess."

Mycroft got out a cigarette and offered one to John, who declined, saying he had to get back to work anyway. He turned and almost walked away, but he stopped and said quite briskly, "I blame you for it, still."

"Yes, I know."

"You didn't even apologize. I mean, you asked me to tell him you were sorry, but that doesn't really cut it, you know?"

"Yes, thank you, John."

"It's just, I know you two didn't get along, but I didn't know that it went that deep. He's still family."

"We were never happy with each other, John."

"That doesn't really matter to me, Mycroft," he said as he finally began walking away. Mycroft thought he would keep talking, but he just kept getting farther and farther away.

Mycroft took a puff of the cigarette and inhaled the smell sharply. He opened his mouth to say something to his deceased brother (for God's sake this was ridiculous) but he faltered and realized he didn't have anything to offer. He could say he was sorry, but what was the use? He would not hear him and it would make no difference because he was still dead and it still hurt. It had been a year and it still hurt Mycroft somewhere deep inside.

Mycroft decided the best he could do was toss the rest of the pack of cigarettes by John's flowers and called it a day.

* * *

**Sorry for taking a while to upload this. I just kept forgetting really XD**

**Thanks in advance for any reviews and also thanks for reading! Sorry for any mistakes! :D**


	4. Part 4

Mycroft's mobile began buzzing erratically. "Mother" appeared on the identification. He ignored the call and reasoned that he'd call her back after he was done reading the current treaty in his hands. Not three minutes after her first call did she call again. Anthea looked up from her perch to the side and asked if Mycroft would like her to handle it. He nodded yes absentmindedly and she answered the call herself, disappearing from the room so not to disturb Mycroft.

It was not long after she returned.

"Sir, there's a problem," she said loudly.

Mycroft looked up, immediately running through a number of scenarios in his mind. He imagined the absolute worst for a few moments and then switched to the better things. Mummy did overreact sometimes, so it really could be nothing. But Anthea never overreacted to anything, and if she said it was a problem then it was probably a _big_ problem.

"Your mother checked each bank account," Anthea explained, "and apparently money is disappearing from your brother's."

Mycroft stared blankly for a moment before the news fully processed and he established a form of action. "How much?"

"It varies, sir, but it's always over three thousand every month."

Mycroft almost threw the papers he was reading on the desk and immediately grabbed a phone. He dialed the bank and demanded they shift all of his brother's saved up money to Mycroft's own account. They said they did, and when Mycroft checked his own records online, quite a substantial amount had been added to his. He next demanded to know who in the world had been taking money from the account. The person on the other line claimed they did not know, since they were using the correct passcode and everything that the younger Holmes created. The bank pulled up a list of recent withdrawals and all came from an ATM in London.

Anthea, hearing the address, immediately called for surveillance on that particular machine. With minutes, the photos and videos loaded onto her laptop and Mycroft scrolled through them to see if he recognized the perpetrator. But as he found out, the perpetrator turned into perpetrator**_s_**. Various people in all sorts of clothes (mainly filthy rags, Mycroft noticed) kept coming and going to the machine at the listed times and dates.

"They look homeless, sir."

"They do," Mycroft agreed quietly. "Call the Inspector and attempt to track these people down."

Anthea nodded and sped off in search of Lestrade's contact information.

Three days later, when Lestrade had managed to obtain three of the…sixteen people in the photos and camera feeds, there was no good explanation. None of the people there claimed to know what Lestrade was talking about; well, they'd heard of the suicide, but that was it. They wouldn't say anything else, and Mycroft got more and more frustrated.

He returned from NYS after trying to interrogate the people to see Anthea looking quite annoyed.

"Well, sir," she said when Mycroft asked tentatively what had happened, "we received a call that someone tried to hack into _your _account. Put in all the wrong numbers probably about five times before giving up. And before you can ask, no, there is no clear image of him, because he covered the camera on the front with his elbow and is wearing every article of clothing to keep his face and body out of the camera's eyes."

She seemed frustrated.

That was odd.

"I'll take care of it, thank you, Anthea," was the only thing Mycroft said as he strolled past her and pushed open the doors to his office. He set his brolly down and looked up in surprise at the very sudden figure sitting in the chair opposite his desk.

"Now how did you get in here?" he asked calmly, picking up his umbrella again to use as a _very_ efficient weapon.

"Oh, put that down, Mycroft," they said and stood up, removing a cap on their head and pulling off a large zip-up sweatshirt. "You look ridiculous," Sherlock Holmes said.

Mycroft figured he _could_ react in a number of ways. He could cry for joy for seeing his once-deceased brother; he could cry for anger for the same reason; he could continue his original plan and deal a swift thrust of his umbrella to his once-deceased brother's jugular; he could shout, scream, pound his fists into the ground.

Mycroft chose to lower the umbrella and stare in awe, shock, and annoyance.

"You're not dead," he finally said.

Sherlock scanned his brother up and down before answering with, "No. Neither are you." He licked his lips. "You don't seem surprised."

"Moriarty killed himself on the roof with you," Mycroft said as his explanation. "I was suspicious. And with what you've been trying to pull with all that money you're stealing-"

Sherlock sneered and sat back down. He watched Mycroft stalk along the perimeter of the room and sit at his desk.

"I was perfectly well off until you interfered," Sherlock muttered, sighing and slouching in his chair.

"Yes, living as a dead man is probably quite luxurious," Mycroft spat. "Although, I wouldn't know, I suppose. Tell me, instead, Sherlock, all the wondrous things you've encountered while on this eighteen-month vacation as a corpse."

"I will not sit here and accept your petty abuse, Mycroft."

"I will certainly not allow you to come back from the dead, making it seem like your whole absence was just the span of a measly afternoon."

Sherlock straightened again and stared at Mycroft. Neither said anything for a while it seemed like, so Mycroft took the time to take in the once-deceased Sherlock Holmes' appearance.

His hair was still made of unruly curls, but he died it to a much lighter brown color than it was naturally. His eyes were…oh, contacts, Mycroft realized. His eyes, instead of the blue they'd always been were a dark chocolate; he just had colored contacts. Instead of his tight button up shirts he wore a thin, long-sleeved blue shirt and frankly ugly jeans. He had upsettingly muddy trainers on. His oversized gray sweatshirt lay on the floor, abandoned.

"Not much of a disguise, Sherlock."

"I had to work quickly with this once. Normally they're better."

"Why the rush?"

"Because my landlord kicked me out because someone took all my money so I could not pay rent anymore, Mycroft." Sherlock shook his head. "I need my money back now, Mycroft. I had a carefully constructed plan and life set up but you completely ruined the whole thing."

"Astounding, though, you thought I wouldn't notice."

"Mummy always had an obsession with checking our statements."

"Which is why I find it hard to believe you made such an amateur mistake."

"Mycroft, I was dead, why would Mummy check mine? I had hopes that by eighteen months after my suicide you all would have moved on like normal human beings, especially because you hated me, Mycroft." Sherlock stopped. "You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson-" He faltered suddenly and ruffled his hair and continued with, "Will you give me back my money or not, Mycroft?"

"What do you need it for?"

Sherlock didn't answer him and crossed his arms. "It is my business, Mycroft, and I need the money now."

Mycroft almost answered him, but there was a knock at his door.

"Sir?" Anthea's voice from the other side. "Something else has come up."

He pursed his lips and got up slowly and slipped out of the office to take care of it. Sherlock stood as well, donning his large grey sweatshirt again and fitting his hat back onto his curly hair. He checked his reflection and deemed it good enough to be waltzing through central London.

Mycroft returned to the room a moment later. He grabbed his coat and umbrella and motioned for Sherlock to follow him.

"I'm not going with you," Sherlock said, crossing his arms and meeting his brother's harsh stare.

"You will go with me, Sherlock," Mycroft commanded, though he whispered his brother's name to make sure no one heard it. "I won't leave you here and I won't leave you to try and get out without my assistance."

"I only came here for my money," the younger Holmes spat. "I don't _need your assistance_, Mycroft."

"Yes you do, or else you could not have come to me. You're not touching one bit in those accounts until you tell me what you need it for."

"I need a new flat, since I've been kicked out of the other one." Sherlock was getting exasperated, and Mycroft could tell from his clenched fists that he could be making anything up from here on out.

"That's only partially your problem. And your flat problems can be rectified when you stay with me," he said. "Now cover your face and follow me."

"I will not stay with you, Mycroft!" Sherlock stepped back and almost bared his teeth like a growl was forming in his throat. "I do not want your help."

Mycroft glared and stepped back into the room and shut the door softly. He set the umbrella down, took a few slow steps towards his stubborn little brother and towered over him.

"I'm not in the mood for negotiations, Sherlock," he said. "But if you stay with me and allow me to help you, perhaps you can return to John sooner."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "Do not attempt to treat me as a child, Mycroft, if I agree."

"You have agreed to it," Mycroft Holmes said, "now hurry up and follow me."

Sherlock frowned but took slow steps toward the door. Anthea waited for them outside; she seemed surprised at the other man with Mycroft, but she did not ask who it was.

"The car is outside for you, sir," she said as they began walking. Mycroft thanked her and advanced forward to match his brother's speed. They walked stoically through the halls, down stairs, and outside to the dimming light from the sun. Sherlock slipped into the car first, followed by Mycroft. The driver sped off without question back towards Mycroft's own flat.

"Why do you want to help me, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked softly as he stared out the window, his eyes finally looking tired and sad because he thought, from Mycroft's angle, they couldn't be seen.

"You haven't eaten properly in God knows how long," he said. "And if you are currently homeless, I feel it is an older brother duty to help."

Actually, that wasn't really the reason. Sherlock, Mycroft realized, was now perhaps the skinniest he had ever been. His limbs hung wearily when he stood, and he looked just as absurdly tired as John and Mycroft himself were.

And also Mycroft had suddenly remembered what John had said to him on the one year anniversary. Mycroft hadn't said sorry, and he had no plans of _saying_ it, but maybe Sherlock might take the hint. Maybe.

* * *

**Bam! The return! **

**It occurred to me that, in the original books, Sherlock has to go to Mycroft for funds and all to help take down Moriarty's web and stuff. So I decided to do the modern BBC version! In case you were wondering. **

**So yep. Thanks in advance for reading and for any reviews I get! And sorry for any mistakes! :D**


	5. Part 5

Sherlock pushed open Mycroft's flat door and shed his layers on his journey to the plush sofa in the sitting room. He practically fell into the seat and sighed heavily.

"This is temporary, Sherlock," Mycroft said, _already_ berating him like an overbearing mother, "but that doesn't mean I'll let you get away with anything."

"This stuffy place could use a mess, Mycroft. Has it ever been unclean?" He put his feet up on the coffee table and stretched.

He rolled his eyes and balled up Sherlock's sweatshirt, shoes, and hat and set it on the coffee table. He also took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves and disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock pushed himself up and watched his brother work about making tea and trying to find something to eat.

"You're quite accepting of my reappearance, Mycroft," he pondered aloud, grabbing an apple and only tossing it around in his hands.

"I was suspicious, Sherlock. I told you."

"You were suspicious that the whole thing was a lie? That seems farfetched."

"Obviously not too much because it _was_ a lie," Mycroft responded and shoved a sandwich in Sherlock's direction. "Eat," he commanded.

Sherlock exhaled deeply but ate anyway. They stood in awkward silence. Both had questions, but both knew the other wouldn't give up the information they wanted easily. Sherlock knew Mycroft would lie about John's condition; Mycroft knew Sherlock would lie about his "business" he had to take care of.

Mycroft felt uneasy deep down inside of himself, but he didn't dare show it. Sherlock would laugh, make a crack at his death again, and Mycroft would lose it and suddenly shout at his baby brother for putting him through that utter _hell_. Sherlock flexed his arm and pushed the empty plate back towards Mycroft.

"How long will you keep me trapped here, Mycroft?" he asked casually, bending down and stretching his arms out over the counter. "I was actually getting things done before you rudely butted in."

Mycroft observed his brother again. He was so much more laid back. He wasn't rigid; he wasn't restrained; he still had a nasty streak but even that seemed lessened. Mycroft wondered if it was a psychological effect or something of the same nature. Perhaps Sherlock experienced a personal hell as well during all this time. Sherlock tapped his fingers wildly against the counter while he stared at his older brother, waiting for some type of answer.

"I had John leave your possessions with Father's," Mycroft said finally, choosing his own subject to talk about. "We'll go there tomorrow to get anything you need."

Sherlock warily regarded Mycroft and he finally said after a stretch of silence, "Has anyone moved into Baker Street?"

"Not to my knowledge."

He nodded thoughtfully and stood straight again and stretched. "You kept everything of mine?"

"Yes."

"Where is my violin?"

"The closet."

Sherlock pushed himself from the counter and almost glided to said closet, reaching up onto the top shelf and pulling down the heavy case. He flicked open the latches and gripped the instrument's neck and plucked a few strings in experiment before grabbing the bow, too, and playing a few little notes for himself. Mycroft stepped around into the hallway and watched.

"Interesting you took this," Sherlock muttered, walking towards his brother, still playing lazily. "Stupidly sentimental of you, Mycroft. Almost makes me sad you stooped to such a sad level."

The older Holmes rolled his eyes and pushed past his brother to reach into the closet again and pull out the deerstalker he received over a year before. He handed it to his brother along with the note that accompanied the hat. Sherlock scanned the writing and smirked at the ugly hat in his hands. He set the hat over the scroll of the violin and laughed at the note.

"Surprised by this, were you, Mycroft?" he muttered cheekily.

"Yes," he answered truthfully. "She's alive?"

"Yes, as am I."

"Have you contacted her?"

Sherlock laughed loudly like what Mycroft asked was a joke. "Of course not, Mycroft." He removed the hat from the violin and tossed it back to Mycroft. "As you said, I barely knew her."

Sherlock played little melodies and rhythms as he walked past Mycroft and settled into an armchair gracefully. His brother watched him; Sherlock was so casual and relaxed.

"I have important matters to get to, Sherlock," Mycroft announced after another hour of silence between the two of them.

"Wonderful to hear."

"Don't leave here."

Sherlock whipped his head up to glare at his brother. "Don't command me, Mycroft." But he made no motion to get up and try and get away as Mycroft busied about, preparing to leave himself.

"Eat and sleep, Sherlock," was the last thing he said before Mycroft left and shut the door.

Sherlock laughed and played his violin.

Mycroft returned many hours later. He unlocked his front door and almost immediately tripped over a large parka coat lying on the floor at his feet. Sherlock suddenly slid into Mycroft's view; he looked almost pleased to see Mycroft.

"Accompany me to Bart's, Mycroft?" he asked shortly, grabbing the coat from the floor and slipping it on. He grabbed a beanie hat from the floor too, slipping it over his auburn hair, and made sure his fake moustache was still in place.

"Why?"

"I need to see Molly Hooper," Sherlock answered, but that was all he wanted to share. Pushing past Mycroft and adjusting the ridiculous coat he wore, Sherlock turned to stare at his brother in the doorway.

"We haven't got all day, Mycroft," he sighed. "She'll be leaving shortly, and I don't want to delay this visit any longer than necessary."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but followed his brother anyway. The two traveled silently to St. Bart's. It took longer than Mycroft would have liked, but Sherlock insisted on taking a cab. The driver took the long route, and Mycroft had to pay for it because Sherlock bounded through the doors before Mycroft could stop him. Sherlock had slowed down a little by the time Mycroft caught up with him.

"Check and make sure she's alone, Mycroft," Sherlock commanded his older brother when they were standing awkwardly outside the morgue doors. Their stances mimicked that one upsetting Christmas they both remembered too well. Mycroft pursed his lips but entered the morgue first anyway, walking slowly.

Molly Hooper turned around at the sound of footsteps behind her. She gasped in surprise at Mycroft and then blinked a few times to make sure it was really him.

"Mycroft Holmes, right?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Are you alone?"

She said yes, and so Mycroft immediately turned back around to obtain Sherlock. Confused and curious as she was, Molly still had to clean up, so she turned back and grabbed a tray with freshly cleaned scalpels and other instruments. She turned back when she heard footsteps, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing ten feet from her made her drop the tray in shock.

"_Sherlock_!" she wheezed, running forward and wrapping him in a very forceful hug. Pulling back when she realized he was uncomfortable with her affection, she stood to study him.

She tried to form words but found she could not.

"Don't say a word, Molly," Sherlock finally muttered deeply, hunching a little so he was closer to her. "I'm still dead."

Her eyes focused on the ground to the side and she nodded dumbly. "Right, okay." She grabbed the end of her hair and played with it. "Why are you back if you're still dead?"

"Mycroft interfered," he answered shortly. "And there's business to take care of here, too."

She nodded in understanding and then asked, "Do you need me?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "But not now."

"O-Okay."

"Where are my clothes?"

Molly stood still and looked confused for a moment, like Sherlock had asked that in a different language. She finally blinked hard a few times and stepped back to point to the empty closet in the corner no one ever used. "In there," she answered, quickly padding towards the closet to remove his classic coat and the clothes he wore the day he died. They were all folded neatly; they had been washed a few times since he'd worn them, it seemed. Probably to get all the blood out of them.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said tucking his clothing under his arm and slipping the huge parka coat back on. He reapplied his stupid moustache and looked to Mycroft. "I need my other things, Mycroft."

"Tomorrow, Sherlock."

"No, now."

Mycroft didn't budge. And neither did Sherlock.

"Sorry," Molly squeaked, "but I have to close up and all. Lock the doors, you know. You have to leave, basically."

Sherlock frowned but turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Mycroft gave a tight smile and nod of his head and followed his brother, leaving Molly Hooper in the darkness of the quiet room.

The two hailed a cab and Sherlock tried to give the address of their facility, but Mycroft beat him and insisted the return to his flat. The driver looked confused, but he followed Mycroft's orders, probably because he looked more threatening.

Their ride was silent, and Mycroft only said something when they shed their coats and were sitting across from each other on separate couches.

"She had a hand in faking your death?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Surprisingly, she did a wonderful job."

"It was a convincing corpse."

Sherlock nodded a few times and raked his eyes all across the room. He stared at his dark, long coat sitting neatly on the coffee table in front of them. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft to see he was already staring hard at him, with his hands gripping the arm rests and legs crossed.

"What have you done?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't answer and only held the gaze, keeping his face stony and blank. Finally sighing and blinking, he replied, "I have been killing and not stopping."

Mycroft sat back and blinked once.

"How do you mean?"

"Moriarty had, essentially, a web of hired hands, bribed men, and what seems like his own psychopathic army," Sherlock explained.

"And you have been slowly destroying every player involved," Mycroft added, understanding now what Sherlock's "business" really was. "How do you know that this web of his hasn't already disbanded?"

"They have still instructions and jobs to get done, Mycroft, even though Moriarty is dead." Sherlock paused. "Moriarty had a right-hand man of sorts, an ex-sniper from the British army. Sebastian Moran. Dishonorably discharged. The world's best marksman."

Mycroft nodded. "I will have some people bring him in."

"You can't just capture Sebastian Moran, Mycroft," Sherlock suddenly barked. "If so, I would have him killed right from the start which, in turn, would cause Moriarty's empire to topple easily. Without a semi-intelligent being to make sure the orders are carried out, the rest would fall in a confused heap."

"We have better ways-"

"No you don't, Mycroft. You just have more people behind you."

"Strength in numbers?"

"Not when your whole team is composed of morons."

"We are not the police force, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes almost rapidly responded again, but he stopped himself and instead calmly said, "You've spoken with Lestrade." He slouched a little and added, "I saw his contact information on your desk."

"He gave me that horrendous hat," Mycroft said, nodding. "That was all."

"Don't lie to me."

"James Moriarty needed identifying," Mycroft angrily hissed, losing himself for a moment. He sat back and continued with, "Lestrade called John and I to see if we could identify the man on the roof. We did. I also had Lestrade look into the men and women who were removing the money from your account."

"It was Moriarty? The body they had?" Sherlock quietly questioned.

Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock folded his hands below his chin. And then, "How is John?"

* * *

**Welp, hoped you liked this part as well. Can't say much else, I suppose. But thanks for reading and sorry for any mistakes! :D **


	6. Part 6

Mycroft pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows at the question. "I don't think you want the answer to that, Sherlock."

"I can always find out from someone else," he responded, "and they will give me the truth. Tell me, how is he?"

Mycroft really did not want to answer this question. He didn't know how Sherlock would react; his brother was different, somehow, and this difference in personality would probably lead to differences in actions and reactions. Sherlock's eyes (now their regular color with the contacts removed) were sharp and wide, giving him a manic look, especially with his wildly curly hair.

"He had a meeting with his therapist a week ago," Mycroft finally admits, staring at his brother.

Sherlock knew what that meant. "He is still not over it."

"You were his best friend," Mycroft answered.

"I was no-"

"He said so," Mycroft interrupted, "to his therapist. He barely utters your name. He does not like to say it."

"You have him bugged?"

"Of course we do."

"Where does he live now?"

"Towards the edge of London," Mycroft replied. "I have one man living on his street with him, in a way; John suspects nothing, still." Mycroft sighed and continued, "He spent the first few months trying to prove you were not a fake, Sherlock. Astonishingly loyal, even after your death."

Sherlock nodded and took a breath before asking, "Does he have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock's face remained stoic and blank as Mycroft tried to decipher the meaning behind his question. It was either asking for assurance that John had at least someone else in his life or…_or_…

Mycroft shook his head. "Not currently, no."

"But before?"

"Briefly. It only lasted a few weeks."

"Nothing else? No one?"

"No one."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He reached for his gray pullover, lying next to him on the sofa and tugged it on. "I have to go," he muttered.

"Don't hurt yourself," Mycroft said, not looking at his brother. "Be careful with the evidence, too. I will prevent your arrest if it comes to that."

"Why do you think there have been no reports, yet, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, suddenly haughty as he made his way to the door. "I have been _very_ careful with the evidence I leave behind."

Mycroft heard the door slam as Sherlock left. He rubbed his tired eyes and went to bed promptly afterwards…except for the fact that Mycroft merely laid there in silence, fully prepared to sleep, but not actually doing so.

Hours and hours later (Mycroft wasn't sure what time it was) his front door opened and slammed. He climbed from bed to make sure Sherlock wasn't deeply injured. He padded to the hallway and instantly anger and disappointment hit him like a blizzard in January.

"Oh, back to drugs as well," Mycroft said after a moment of silence.

"Surprise you didn't figure it out sooner, Mycroft," Sherlock laughed. "Although, I've gotten particularly good at hiding the signs and symptoms."

But Mycroft could tell now. Sherlock was twitching visibly, his hands clenching and unclenching again and again, with his breathing fast and shallow. He rolled up his shirt sleeve and showed the pinpricks in his arm for Mycroft to see.

"Only seven percent solution, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Don't worry about it."

"I will send you to rehab again, Sherlock," Mycroft threatened. "I would hate to, but I will."

"I wish you good luck with that, Mycroft. I'm still technically dead, you know, so it will be hard convincing them you're sending your younger brother back."

"I'll have a personal staff hired."

"Okay, sure."

Mycroft's lip curled. "You disappoint me."

"I don't care, Mycroft." Sherlock licked his lips. "Mummy still loves me."

"What will John say?"

Sherlock flinched. "He won't know I went back."

"I will reinstate your danger nights, Sherlock. You won't be let out of anyone's sight. I will keep you with me all through the night, barring the door and swallowing the key." He made sure to keep himself calm.

"I will be clean when he sees me, Mycroft," Sherlock finally hissed, annoyed with his brother finally.

Mycroft almost kept rattling off threats, but he stopped at his brother's words. A quick scan of his shoes and a sniff of the air, and Mycroft knew where his brother had been.

"You went to Miss Hooper for his address," he stated, swallowing thickly.

Sherlock nodded.

"He didn't see you?"

"He was asleep."

"You went _in_?" Mycroft almost screeched, astounded his brother made such a daring leap.

"The lock was easy to pick."

Mycroft's eyes widened. He was sick of his baby brother already. It had only been a few hours, and Mycroft had previously thought his brother was dead, and now he really wanted him gone again.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began, brushing past him and sitting on the sofa again, "I don't want to be here, either. If you hadn't interfered, I could continue on as I please. But you butted in with your large nose and _ruined_ my carefully constructed life. I had to uproot myself _again_ because of you, Mycroft," he spat. "I had possessions I needed, and who knows when I can get back to them.

"I had friends, Mycroft," he continued, voice rising only slightly. "John is emotionless without me; you liked John, how could you do that to him?"

"How could _I_?" Mycroft retaliated, bristling and squaring his shoulders. "Was it _I _who jumped off that building? Was it _I _who did it in front of my only friend? Did I miss that part?"

"It was your fault, Mycroft."

And it was quiet.

"Who else knew that kind of information about me, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, calmer this time. "I had you as the culprit the moment Moriarty showed me his papers."

Mycroft straightened. "I did what I had to do," he said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, nodding. "And I did what _I _had to do."

Mycroft swallowed.

Sherlock stood. He clenched and unclenched his fists again. "Is your spare bedroom clean?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded once.

"Well, goodnight, then."

Sherlock left Mycroft in the hall alone. The older Holmes stood there for a few more moments, biting on his lip to keep it from quivering any more than it already was.

He still didn't say he was sorry.

* * *

**Well. I'm enjoying writing upsetting things like this for some reason. I think upsetting other people makes me less upset XD **

**Thanks for reading and sorry for any mistakes! :D **


	7. Part 7

Mycroft sat quietly in his kitchen, barely eating what little breakfast he made for himself. His tea was getting cold and the time was getting later. Mycroft began to wonder if Sherlock would ever come out of the spare room. He wasn't one to avoid people after having an argument. Normally, really, he'd act like normal, like it hadn't even happened, because he had better things to do than waste time arguing _more_.

And but of course Sherlock would have known Mycroft had done it. Even John figured it out for God's sake. Surely Sherlock would have gotten it, too. And Mycroft really shouldn't have been surprised his brother had carried on like normal all while knowing he was almost wholly responsible for the final domino that forced Sherlock to jump. It wasn't entirely his fault, and both knew that, but both still weren't very pleased with each other.

Mycroft snapped his head up abruptly at the sound of Sherlock's door closing. His footsteps sounded softly in the hallway as he drew closer to the kitchen. Their eyes met when he entered the kitchen, and Mycroft uttered a half-hearted, "Good morning."

Sherlock didn't respond and merely advanced forward to get himself some food and drink. As he buttered a muffin, he announced, "I'd like to get my things, today, Mycroft."

"Yes," Mycroft replied, getting up to stand next to Sherlock, "I've cleared up my next two days for you. We will get everything you need and then perhaps you can come back alive soon."

"I have a list of things I require."

"Fetch it. I'll have it sent to Anthea."

Sherlock paused. "You trust her enough?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I? You know she's been unwaveringly loyal for all these years."

"And if she is suspicious as to why you need new firearms?"

"Then she will be suspicious and not bring it up."

Sherlock looked his brother up and down took a bite of muffin, and retreated back to his room. He returned not five minutes later wearing an obnoxiously huge pair of sunglasses and a ridiculous fedora on his head. He handed Mycroft a folded piece of paper and instructed he'd need everything on his list within the next week. Mycroft nodded and excused himself to make the call to Anthea.

She picked up after two rings and answered with, "Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Hello, Anthea," he greeted. "I have a few things for you to get." He rattled off the items on the list, waiting an appropriate time for her to write down each object.

"Is that all?" she asked. Ah, good old Anthea. Not a trace of suspicion in her voice.

"Yes, Anthea. I need them by the end of the week."

"Yes, sir. I'll place the orders now. Anything else you need, sir?"

"No, thank you."

"Fantastic, sir. I will be by your flat at seven tonight to drop off the papers from today's meeting you'll be missing. Is that all right?"

"Yes, thank you, Anthea."

"Goodbye, then, Mr. Holmes." She hung up after and Mycroft placed his phone back in his pocket. Sherlock was waiting impatiently behind him, tapping his foot and picking at the buttons on his coat. Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed, but lead the way out of the flat anyway. They hailed a cab, gave the driver the address, and settled into a scarily uncomfortable silence. They reached their destination quick enough, and Sherlock bolted from the cab, leaving Mycroft to pay for it again. Sherlock, remembering what cell they owned, called forth the attendant and snatched the key from his grasp. Mycroft followed closely behind him until they reached the matching door. Sherlock jammed the key in, turned it roughly, and wrenched open the door.

Boxes and boxes was all Mycroft could see. They were lined, stacked, toppled everywhere. A few lame and falling apart bookshelves sat to the corner, and even they had boxes on them too.

"Father's things are in the back," Mycroft shouted to his brother, since Sherlock had already dove into the sea of cardboard.

"Well of course, Mycroft!" he answered hotly. "Where is my microscope?" he demanded a few moments later. "Help me."

Mycroft sighed and dropped his umbrella and suit jacket and began digging around in boxes just the same as Sherlock was doing.

"Besides your microscope, what else?"

"All of my journals, books-"

"We are _not_ taking all of your books back home," Mycroft interrupted.

Sherlock stood up tall suddenly, like a meerkat. "Why not?"

"You owned hundreds, Sherlock."

"Oh, get Anthea to bring them back."

"No. Take your select few needed ones. We'll come back later if you missed something," Mycroft huffed as he bent back down to fish through piles of junk. Oh, why did he keep everything his brother owned? Why, in his grieving state, did he decide this? What was going through his mind? Sentiment? Heaven forbid.

"I saw you and John at my grave," Sherlock announced a good half-hour later. He'd sat down on the dirty floor and was going through a large stack of folders and papers.

"When?"

"When else, Mycroft?" he scoffed. "The one year anniversary."

Holmes the older stood up and stretched. "What have you to say about it?"

"I'm glad you didn't bother John too much," he muttered. "And it was time for him to go, anyway. He'd been there longer than he needed to be."

"His problem is that he doesn't _want _to forget," Mycroft added quietly, almost as an afterthought. "He clearly is trying to move on, but he almost forces memories of you on himself. You were, Sherlock," Mycroft said stronger, "his best friend."

"Yes, I know, Mycroft," he said tiredly. "I am trying my best to get back to him, now shut up." He tossed a few files to the side and stretched like a cat. "Thank you for the cigarettes by the way, Mycroft," he said, walking by his brother to begin rifling through another box. "Lovely gift. Better than a pathetic speech. Or an apology."

Mycroft held his tongue.

Probably another two hours later, Sherlock finally decided he had enough things to take back with him. They called a cab and returned back to Mycroft's flat to dumb all of Sherlock's things in the sitting room.

"I've also stored some things in the Vauxhall Arches," Sherlock said, standing behind Mycroft as he tiredly collapsed into a seat.

"Later, Sherlock."

"No, now."

Mycroft turned to glare at his brother, but Sherlock did not waver and kept standing there, waiting for Mycroft to get up. He finally gave in, though, and he reluctantly followed his brother out of the flat again. Sherlock stopped the cab back a few blocks and decided to just walk the rest of the way. Mycroft followed him, but said earlier in the ride there that he would not follow Sherlock down there.

They walked briskly, but Sherlock suddenly stopped at a voiced calling out to them.

"It's Inspector Lestrade," he hissed, stepping around Mycroft and ducking into an alley before Lestrade really got a look at him.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade greeted Mycroft happily, shaking his hand. "What brings you into this dingy part of town?" He paused. "Weren't you walking with someone?"

Mycroft smiled tightly. "I'm here on business. And no, surely you imagined them."

"No, but you walked right by me," Lestrade insisted. "There…wasn't someone with you?"

"No," Mycroft answered strongly. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." He looked across the street and noticed various police cruisers and people milling about in uniforms.

"A gruesome murder, Inspector?" Mycroft asked, attempting to make conversation.

Lestrade smiled a little and said, "Oh yeah. Pretty nasty, actually. The head's gone missing. Can't figure out where it might have gone. Want to take a crack at it? I'm sure you're just as good as your brother was!" Lestrade was, of course, joking, but Mycroft figured that the force must be down on cases solved with the loss of Sherlock's massive brain.

Mycroft laughed lightly and shook his head. "No, thank you, Inspector. I have my own job. And I get paid for it, too."

"Hey, he never wanted the money."

"Well, that was Sherlock," Mycroft replied. His phone chimed a few moments later with a text from Sherlock, saying he would return back to the flat. Mycroft pocketed his phone again and began to tell Lestrade he had to leave, but he had already raced off to deal with some whining officers. Mycroft gave a nod and grabbed his own cab back to his flat.

Sherlock was, of course, already there. He'd removed what little disguise he'd had and sat on the sofa, plucking at the strings of his violin.

"Have a nice chat with Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft?" Sherlock practically sneered.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "He wanted to know who I was walking with and what I was doing there."

"And you probably convinced him there was no one with him, yes?"

"Yes, I did."

"Fantastic."

Sherlock, with a flourish, settled his violin under his chin and held it comfortably, and then dragged his bow messily along the strings, producing a screeching. But he slowly eased the pressure and rather glided the horsehair across the taut strings and created something that didn't make the ears bleed. Mycroft sat himself down across from Sherlock and picked up a large book and relaxed.

Hours passed, and true to her word, Anthea knocked on the front door at precisely seven P.M. Sherlock had already left at that point, off to take care of business, so Mycroft had nothing to worry about when he opened the door. So yes, he unlocked the door and offered for Anthea to come in, but she declined and merely handed the papers over with a smile. She bid him goodnight and promptly strolled from the building.

Sitting down comfortably again, Mycroft leafed through the thick bundles of treaties and contracts and agreements. He'd been at it for hours (the clock above the fireplace read 3:34 AM) and then suddenly the door opened. Sherlock strolled in, looking tired. He dropped his coat on the ground and bypassed Mycroft and went directly to the bathroom. The shower water turned on a moment later. When Sherlock emerged again, from the bathroom, his hair was soggy and dripping onto the gray shirt he wore to bed.

"It went well?" Mycroft asked his now-a-murderer brother.

"It did," was the short reply.

And well, that was the Holmes brothers' life for the next months.

* * *

**Hello there! Hope you liked this chapter! Had fun writing it. **

**Thanks for reading and sorry for any mistakes! :D **


	8. Part 8

It was a calm night for once. Still, even after three months of their living conditions, Mycroft and Sherlock bickered and argued and still despised each other. But they'd managed to keep it a secret, though. It's not as if many people came by visiting Mycroft, and Anthea didn't pry when Mycroft said he had a guest staying with him for "an indefinite amount of time" thank goodness.

On this calm night, as Mycroft scanned through work papers from the day, there were a sharp few knocks on his front door. Glancing at the clock (1:18 AM), Mycroft got up to see who was there.

It couldn't be Sherlock, since he had a key. Why would he knock when he could let himself in? Mycroft scrolled through a list of people who'd come knocking at his door at one in the morning, and he peered through the peephole and saw Anthea. She still looked immaculate even at this hour. He hurriedly opened the door for her, since she looked distressed.

"Sir," she started gravely, "I just got a call from someone named…Molly Hooper?"

Mycroft instantly straightened. "What did she say?"

"She said that-" Anthea faltered and looked uncomfortably up at Mycroft. "Well, sir, she said that your brother had been injured. She said to come to St. Mary's as soon as possible."

Mycroft paled instantly. If Sherlock went to the hospital well then it had to have been something serious. It wasn't something he couldn't just return to the flat for and get patched up there. Mycroft, in a rather controlled flurry, grabbed his coat and umbrella and raced from the flat. Anthea looked confused, but she followed right behind him anyway.

"I will explain later, Anthea," the older Holmes finally muttered as they were situated in the car, speeding down the crowded roads. "There _is_ an explanation, really."

She nodded uneasily, glancing at him sideways. "I can't wait to hear it, sir," she murmured.

Mycroft, as calmly as he could manage, when they arrived at the hospital, tore from the black car and sped into the hospital. He got to the front desk and the woman politely asked him what he needed, but Mycroft quickly realized he couldn't just ask where Sherlock Holmes was. His brother probably had a fake name Molly signed him in on. But Mycroft didn't know what that name was. Anthea appeared by his side a beat later and leaned in to the woman at the desk and said, "We're looking for a patient named Nicholas Seward. This is his brother."

The woman nodded once and scrolled through her database on her computer for a few seconds and right before she announced the room number, someone called out to them. Mycroft whipped around to find Molly Hooper almost running to them.

"Oh, great, you're here!" she said smiling widely, yet still uneasily as well. "I'll take you to his room."

She took off in the direction from which she came and led the two up a few stories and got off on the fourth floor. She stopped at a door labeled 478 and gripped the door handle but didn't open it.

"What happened to him?" Mycroft asked.

"Two cracked ribs on the left, one broken on the right. Quite a nasty gaping wound in his left thigh, too. It was bleeding a lot, Mr. Holmes."

"Is he awake?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "But he's…he's being downright awful about it all though," she finally admitted, clearly annoyed. "Moaning and lamenting. I don't think he wants you here either."

"Yes, that makes two of us. Open the door please."

Molly sighed and pushed open the heavy door. Mycroft entered first, followed by Anthea, and Molly closed the door behind herself.

"You're doing well, I see," Mycroft spat. Sherlock was sprawled out on the hospital bed, hair a mess, legs splayed. There were thick and tightly wound bandages around his thigh. Mycroft noticed Molly's blush as the crinkly hospital gown slid up just a tiny bit more.

"Oh shut up," Sherlock sneered, looking squarely at his older brother. "This was an unforeseen…possibility."

"Meaning you didn't expect it," was the haughty reply.

Sherlock shifted in his bed, switching his gaze from Mycroft to a rather stunned Anthea. "Pleasure to see you again, Anthea."

She blinked and tried to form words but kept failing to do so. Finally she settled on, "You're…not dead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned out, "Why is that everyone's first response? It's getting so boring now."

"Well I don't know what other response we can give, Sherlock," Mycroft offered, "since you _were_ dead. Well, supposedly."

"I faked it, Anthea."

"Yes, clearly." She studied him up and down before brushing her hair from her face and shaking her head. "What will you do with all those items you ordered, Mr. Holmes?" she asked after a few seconds, figuring things out as they went along. "I mean, you won't be able to use them for some time."

Sherlock's lip curled and he tried to cross his arms over his chest, but the pressure on his ribs hurt too much and he cried out softly. Molly grimaced from her stance in the back of the room. Mycroft heard her sharp intake of breath, and he turned to look at her.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper, for bringing him here," he said to her. "I am grateful."

"Oh, it wasn't really any trouble," she said, smiling. "I mean, took a while, but you know, I couldn't just _leave_ him on the pavement by my flat."

"He went to you?"

She nodded.

Mycroft laughed and gave a wide smile, which probably rather frightened Molly. He regained himself and politely, yet suddenly, asked, "Molly, if you could us some privacy for a few moments?"

She jumped in realization at his request and nodded quickly and made her way to the door. Anthea began to follow her, but Mycroft stopped her. The door closed behind Molly and Mycroft instructed for Anthea to sit down somewhere. She chose the chair in the corner and sat staring in a vague mask of disbelief at Sherlock.

"Anthea," Mycroft began, "clearly, Sherlock is actually alive. I've only known for a few months myself."

"Actually Sherlock was stealing from his own bank account, I take it?" she asked, getting to the right and smart questions quickly. That's probably the reason Mycroft liked her so much; she wasn't a moron.

"Yes, it was actually him."

"And he's been your guest all this time? He's been alive? You told no one?"

Both shook their heads.

"Why? And how?"

Sherlock sighed and quickly gave an overview of the past twenty-some months while Mycroft went back and fetched Molly again. He sat her down in the chair he'd been previously occupying and went to stand next to Sherlock by his bed.

"Molly, I'd like you to stay here and watch over Sherlock," he announced.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock protested violently, trying to thrash out and smack his brother.

Molly looked taken aback. "Oh, I-I mean, I would like to help and all," she stuttered, "but I've got my job. So I can-"

Mycroft intervened with, "We'll give you a few days of absence. Free of charge, no deductions, you'll still get pay." He turned to Sherlock. "How long will they keep you here, _Nicholas_ _Seward_?"

"Two days," he answered angrily. "Then bed rest back home." He scoffed at the _mere notion_ of such a thing.

"I will return in the night for you," Mycroft continued, "and when you're released, Anthea, you'll stay with us."

Her eyes narrowed minutely, but she nodded firmly.

There was a small stretch of silence before Sherlock sarcastically spat, "Well, glad you've worked out my life, Mycroft. Please mother me more. It is _precisely_ what I wanted. In fact, I can think of no bett-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft boomed, eyes widening, jaw clenching.

Sherlock's upper lip curled but he kept his mouth shut. Again, trying to cross his arms over his chest, he failed because of the pain and finally dropped them to his sides and laid dejectedly on the soft bed, eyes shut, lip still curled.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned to smile at Molly Hooper. "Thank you again, Miss Hooper. Go home and rest, please," he commanded. "I expect you here in the morning."

She blinked a few times before nodding slowly and backing out of the room. Mycroft waved for Anthea to follow her. Now only the Holmes brothers remained in the room.

"Nicholas Seward, is it?" Mycroft asked casually, setting himself comfortably in a chair and crossing his legs. "Average. Very good."

"He's a divorced man, no children," Sherlock explained slowly, "recently returned from a long stay in Italy from said divorce. Tried to find a good flat here but not enough money. Living on the edge of town in a horrible little shack. Goes out all day and night to find a job. Has no luck. Had money. Stupid ugly government official of a brother took it away."

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, and I thought we were actually going to get somewhere."

"Did you suffer head trauma, then?" Sherlock shot back, glaring at Mycroft.

"You hid in Italy?"

Sherlock nodded. "The first eleven months."

"You returned solely for the first anniversary?"

"That and I'd finally taken care of the majority of people I could outside of London. The rest of Moriarty's crew is stationed in England."

"And Miss Hooper has known this entire time."

"Yes, Mycroft. She has been unwaveringly loyal."

Knocking gently on the door, Anthea called out from behind it, "There's a car waiting for you, sir."

Mycroft nodded to himself, stood slowly, and looked at Sherlock and said firmly, "At least you have one person on your side." So he smiled and left the room.

* * *

**Hi there! I hadn't planned on this happening, but I sort of wanted Anthea in on it too, since I kind of miss her and hope we see more of her in series 3 (waaaah). **

**School starts up for me this 27th, so wish me luck! :)  
**

**So hope you liked this part, too! Thanks for reading and sorry for any mistakes! :D **


	9. Part 9

Sherlock spent two miserable days in that hospital room. Mycroft came back the next night, prepared for the absolute worst from his brother about poor Molly and having to spend a whole day with her. But he was considerably brighter than what Sherlock was expecting. Molly had not cried, Mycroft could see, so whatever Sherlock had said couldn't have been _that_ insulting. Miss Hooper left for the day and promised to return early again the next morning. Mycroft settled into a chair and pulled out his phone and scrolled through messages and sent a few texts.

"You don't have to watch me, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured, fumbling with his blankets. He rubbed at the IV in his hand and looked towards his brother. "What do you think I will get into during the night in a hospital, while I can barely breathe and walk properly? Surely not much."

Mycroft did not look up from his phone but answered, "You would find out some way to cause trouble, even if you had Miss Hooper carry it out."

"She would never."

"She caused plenty of trouble with your faked suicide."

"Essentially," Sherlock growled, "you'd rather me be dead. Wonderful to hear."

Mycroft did not look up again as he announced he had a trip planned for France for the entire day tomorrow, so Anthea would take Sherlock back to the flat. She would be there at three the next afternoon. Mycroft then placed his phone in his pocket neatly, bent down to his bag and produced a very thick hardback written about World War II. He handed it to Sherlock's greedy hands, his eyes clearly showing his want for anything to do, even if it meant reading something he already knew the outcome to. Mycroft pulled out his own book (a complete volume of Shakespeare works; currently he was on _The Tempest_) and they sat in silence.

Mycroft still had things he wanted to say to his brother, but he still did not manage to do so.

When Mycroft returned to his flat late the next day, Anthea greeted him warmly the moment he stepped into the room. She gave him a rundown on what had happened in the night, the day, everything he missed while in France, what Sherlock had been up to, everything. She was calm and collected and easily glided down the hallway to show where Sherlock had been situated on the coach. He was sitting up against the armrest with his impossibly long legs stretched out before him. A woolen blanket covered his bottom half. He was presently dragging his bow across the tiny strings of violin angrily, fuming for some reason.

"Was he too much trouble?" Mycroft softly asked his assistant.

She hesitated before giving her answer. "He's still in pain, sir. They gave us some Vicodin an-"

"Get rid of it, please, Anthea," Mycroft quickly said. "Can't have another addiction hanging onto him."

"Don't touch my medications," Sherlock called and played an angry high-pitched note after. "You are not my doctor, Mycroft, and don't get to decide these things for me."

"But I am your big brother," was the retort, "so I believe I am able to." Mycroft shed his coat and hung it up neatly before sitting across from Sherlock's make-shift bed. He noticed an empty teacup on the table with an empty plate, only littered with bread crumbs. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hadn't made that for himself and he probably didn't willingly or happily eat that toast, so it must have been Anthea. Her question asking if he needed or wanted anything confirmed his suspicions. Mycroft knew Anthea was going above and beyond. Mycroft ignored the violin's wailing and turned to ponder his own thoughts in his own massive mind. He remembered when Anthea first started work with him.

Anthea had originally wanted to be on the police force, but instead switched almost at the last moment when a recruiter of sorts came to her school and singled her out as a woman who might be good at spying. She felt offended by his blunt offer and declined immediately. Although, right then he reworded his proposal and said she'd have the chance to know all the nation's secrets and get the pay for not blabbing it all. There and then she was intrigued.

Almost right when she got to her new workplace, news spread around that a man's assistant had been tragically killed in a shooting. His name was Tobias (or at least, his fake name) and the position for Mycroft's Holmes' assistant was now open. It had to be filled quickly since the 2006 Winter Olympic Games were coming up and Mr. Holmes was always exceedingly busy for that time. Anthea volunteered herself, and after a very quick glance from Mycroft, she was deemed fit and able to do the job. They'd met a few times after to discuss confidentiality, pay, hours, everything one could expect when being the personal assistant to one Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government. She began two days later.

The first thing Mycroft had Anthea do on her first day of work was fetch him his good pen from a room across the hall. When she returned with said pen in hand, Mycroft was on the phone, angrily hissing down to the other person. Anthea stood back, not sure what to do. She stepped forward tentatively, though, and set the pen on Mycroft's desk and stepped back again. He rolled his eyes and sighed and set his phone down once he ended the call. He folded his hands under his chin and stared at the pen.

"Miss Anthea?" he asked, already getting her used to the fake name.

"Yes, sir?"

"Will you run an errand for me?"

"Yes, sir."

He got up and handed her a piece of paper. On it was simply "Inspector Gregson."

"You'll go to Scotland Yard, ask for this man, say you are from me, and…deliver whoever you receive in whatever state he is in back to his _home_, wherever that may be, understood?"

"Yes, sir," she said, nodding once firmly. She turned on her heel and left the building quickly, obtaining a car and directing the driver to Scotland Yard.

So the second thing Mycroft had Anthea do was pick up his drug addict of a younger brother from a night in jail.

She got to Scotland Yard quick enough, marching straight through the doors and stopping at a desk centered right before her.

"I'm looking for an Inspector Gregson," she said to the man at the desk. He nodded once or twice and typed away at his computer for a moment.

"'Scuse me," someone said from beside Anthea. She turned to see a silver-haired man, with happy brown eyes, and a sweet face. "Did you say Gregson?"

"I did."

"I can take you to him," he offered. He gestured for her to follow him. They walked for quite a while and went up a few different elevators before getting off on the fourth floor. They charged through cubicles and desks and cabinets until the man stopped at a door and knocked. The man in the office said to come in, so Anthea turned the knob. She took one step forward before turning back and saying a polite "thank you" to the man who showed her the way.

Inspector Gregson was pretty cheery for a man in the homicide department. He immediately knew who Anthea was asking for and seemed to almost pity her. He got up and led her all around the twisting rows just like the other man had. They traveled downward to the very basement of the building and stopped at a desk. Gregson asked quietly for someone, and the person got up and went to a cell and opened the door.

"You've finally been bailed, mate!" he shouted happily.

"Shut your mouth, you _heathen_," the man in the cell hissed and stood on shaky legs. His trousers were tight (almost _too_ tight), as was his tight navy blue button up shirt. His hair was messy, dark, curly, and went off in all sorts of directions. His seemingly beautiful eyes caught Anthea's gaze and he immediately frowned deeper.

"Mycroft sent you," he said, walking by her briskly. Anthea almost answered, but she was cut off with a, "Of course he did. Too fat and lazy to get up probably."

Anthea pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me, who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied hotly, glaring at her. "What fake name have they given you?"

She glared back. "Anthea, Mr. Holmes. You may call me Anthea."

"And what, _Anthea_, is your real name?"

"Confidential information, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smirked and led the way out of the building and to the shady black car idling on the curb. He climbed into the back, with Anthea right behind him. Sherlock shouted an address to the driver, and they pulled away.

"You are his younger brother, I take it?" Anthea asked, attempting for conversation.

Sherlock scoffed. "Unfortunately."

"Why were you in jail?"

"Drug possession," he answered shortly, casually. Anthea looked shocked. "Surely," Sherlock continued, "my big brother has explained to you the horrors of the Holmes family? His ridiculous younger brother always causing trouble?"

"No," she replied. "Today is my first day."

"Yes, I know that."

"How?"

Sherlock sat back and smirked again. "You left your phone the car," he said. "The other one always took it in with him and barely looked away. Mycroft's already texted you…oh, somewhere around ten times, I'd say."

Anthea's heart froze. Had she messed up on the first day already? And yes, sure enough, when she reached for her phone, she noticed nine missed text messages from Mycroft. She tried not to show her embarrassment, but Sherlock clearly caught on to it.

"Oh but don't worry, Anthea," he said as they pulled up to the address he gave a few moments later. "The other one screwed up a lot too at the beginning. But of course…he's dead now."

And precisely like that, that was Sherlock and Anthea's first meeting. Mycroft managed to piece together the whole encounter through stories from Anthea, Sherlock and even the driver. Cameras around the station and in the car gave much away as well.

Anthea, Mycroft knew, would get better over time. Tobias was the same. No one was perfect their first day. But Anthea certainly tried very hard to make sure she was near that the days after. She learned quickly that Mycroft wasn't a mean man, but he expected one's full attention and at least competence while in his presence. Anthea managed that easy enough.

Mycroft was shaken from his loud and long thoughts when Anthea gently tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a cup of tea.

"Just in case, sir," she whispered. "I'll leave now and get some less harmful pain medications for your brother. Is there anything else I can get you?"

Mycroft shook his head and smiled.

"Yourself, the other Mr. Holmes?" she asked happily, turning to Sherlock. He craned his neck and pulled his violin along with it, playing a sad, upsetting piece from memory as he simply stared at her as she pulled on a thick coat. She nodded to them both and left the flat, shutting the door quietly.

The brothers sat in silence, with only the continuous violin making noise in the whole flat. Sherlock finally ceased his annoying puttering about and turned to Mycroft and inhaled and asked, "Mycroft, would you do two things for me?"

He regarded his younger brother warily. "What are they, Sherlock?"

"I'd like for 221B to be kept unoccupied," he announced. "When I return alive and well, I'd like to live there again."

"With or without John?"

"What do you mean 'without,' Mycroft? Of course he'll be there."

He nodded. "I will speak with Mrs. Hudson. Anonymously?"

"Yes. Give above the rent for it; she needs it and could use the extra money."

Mycroft nodded, taken aback at the compassion Sherlock showed for his old landlady. "I will take care of it."

Sherlock nodded. He licked his lips and reached under the blanket around his waist and pulled out a crumpled paper. Mycroft reached out and took it. He saw the scribbled name on the front and immediately placed it to his side with a forceful, "No."

"It won't harm anything, Mycroft," Sherlock attempted, but his brother cut him off.

"No, Sherlock," he growled. "You won't interfere with his life until you are certain you can remain there. He is in pain, clearly, and honestly we do not know if he will ever recover. I will not have you writing stupid love notes to him, possibly giving away your entire and carefully constructed plan."

"It is not a love note, Mycroft," spat Sherlock, pointing his bow angrily towards him. "I ask only that you deliver that to his front door and honestly nothing else."

"I will not do it, Sherlock." Mycroft got up. "Get someone else to do your pathetic jobs for you because I will not."

Mycroft stood after that and stalked away, retreated to his bedroom. He shut his door and heard the loud and distinguishing crack and crash of an empty teacup hitting a wall and shattering.

At least Sherlock had to apologize for something now.

* * *

**Hey everyone! Hoped you liked this installment, too :) I'm having a lot of fun writing this, so I kind of hope you're having fun reading this or something as well! **

**Sorry for any mistakes and thanks for reading! :D  
**


	10. Part 10

Mycroft heard the door open and close quietly. Anthea's heels clicked across the floorboards as she approached the living room, addressed Sherlock about his condition and why a teacup was shattered. No doubt Sherlock gave his side of the story, painting Mycroft as the dastardly villain with a lump of coal for a heart and blood like ice. Mycroft waited a few moments until he heard Anthea coming down the hall to his own room. He stood and opened the door swiftly before she could knock. She smiled weakly and announced in a quiet voice, "Sherlock wants me to tell you that he can't think of a worse place than here right now. He says once he's healed he'll be leaving."

Mycroft nodded. "Was that all he had to say?"

"Yes." She inhaled and added, "I'll be leaving now but be back at eight tomorrow."

Mycroft nodded again. "That sounds agreeable," he replied. "Will you spend the day with Sherlock? Make sure he doesn't injure himself further?"

"I'll call Rodney and have him for you at nine tomorrow, sir," was her firm reply. "Is that all?"

"Yes. Thank you, Anthea."

"Yes, sir."

She turned on her heel and Mycroft heard her call out a goodbye to Sherlock, who did not respond to her. The front door shut as Anthea left the building, and Mycroft debated about leaving his room. On one obvious hand, Sherlock was out there, and Mycroft would have to listen to a string of petty insults chucked at him. The other hand seemed more promising, but it was the more childish route, and that was to stay in his room until Anthea came back the next morning.

Mycroft really did know that they were a foolish pair. Neither didn't quite know where the hatred came from initially, but once it reared its nasty enormous head, both found everything the other did _so_ awful. When they were young boys, Mycroft couldn't butter his toast with Sherlock making a snide comment about it; Sherlock couldn't dissect a specimen without Mycroft taunting him. Their home was always tense and quiet since one little peep from one brother would cause an uproar for the other.

Actually, come to think of it, Mycroft really did know where the hatred started. The reason the house was so tense and quiet was because, also, their father had just left them all. He'd been having an affair for years, and Mycroft had known about it almost from the get go. Sherlock, still quite young, hadn't realized it until he was old enough to really properly deduce and figure things out about people. When the younger boy had found out, he went straight to Mummy and tattled the whole thing to her. Later, both would come to realize that Mummy had known almost all along, but she kept it quiet.

But once Sherlock had really finally voiced it, Father lost it and demanded a divorce, to leave the house, live with Shelley or whatever the hell her name was, etc. Mycroft remembered sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to his parents have an angry yet frighteningly quiet go at each other. Sherlock meandered down the hall, eyes red and puffy from sobbing, and Mycroft held his brother with an iron grip as the fight ended and the front door slammed.

Things were _okay_ after that, but when they got a letter from Father saying he wouldn't spend Christmas with them, Mycroft lost it next and screamed at his little brother for essentially taking their family in his sticky hands and ripping it into ugly little pieces. Sherlock cried and screamed back incoherent insults and words in different languages until Mummy managed to get them apart and stick them in their separate rooms for hours. When they had permission to come out, they regarded each other warily and went their separate ways and that was that.

In that event laid another major difference in the Holmes brothers. Mycroft was able to keep secrets _very _well. He had a talented and quick tongue for coming up with very well crafted lies on the spot, and that's why he was so good at his job. Sherlock, on the other end of the spectrum, demanded to know and then tell everything a person had done, is doing, and will do. He blabbed everything, whether it be socially acceptable to do so or not. One kept their mouth tightly sealed, while the other spewed words like an overflowing faucet.

Mycroft shook his head, made up his mind, squared his shoulders, and opened the door. He strolled down the hallway, pausing at the sofa where Sherlock still sat. His head had fallen backwards about the armrest, with his arms crossed at his chest. He suddenly shifted around and opened his eyes to stare at Mycroft.

"Come out, finally?" he sneered, sitting up as best he could and swinging his legs around to plant them firmly to the floor. Mycroft heard his secretive gasp of pain and minute contortion of pain in his face, and he was instantly at Sherlock's side, holding out a hand for him.

"I don't want your help, Mycroft."

Sherlock knocked his hand out of the way and braced himself visibly for the pain of getting up. He managed it slowly and his face looked to be in agony, but he finally was standing on his own. He took a breath and a step forward, and instantly stumbled. Mycroft caught him the very next moment and held his shoulders as his younger brother tried to regain back his breath.

"Anthea will stay with you tomorrow," Mycroft muttered, leading and helping Sherlock back to the guest bedroom where he slept. "You won't be too terrible with her, I trust."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Well, there went that attempt at a civil conversation. Mycroft kept his mouth shut like always and dragged Sherlock across the room to the bed. Sherlock pulled himself from Mycroft's grasp and flopped onto the bed, panting slightly and groaning in pain quietly. Mycroft didn't leave, he just stood there and watched a moment.

Sherlock peeled his eyes open again and peered at his brother. He stood slowly again by himself and tore the covers and blankets back and slipped into them without help.

"Let me see," Mycroft commanded, stepping closer.

"No."

"_Sherlock_."

"You're not a doctor, nor do you have any medical knowledge, what good will it do you? Or me?"

"Your doctor isn't here now, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped viciously, "and it is my job to make sure you don't die in the process trying to get him back. Now remove your shirt and **let me see**."

Sherlock looked almost physically wounded by the outburst. But he complied slowly and angrily, tearing off his shirt in a fit and tossing it the floor like it had personally wronged him. He sat back and allowed Mycroft to peer at the ugly bruising on his torso. The older Holmes tentatively brushed against the sides, feeling Sherlock contract at the contact, annoyed and in pain. Mycroft stood back and handed Sherlock's shirt back to him. Mycroft turned to leave and was about to shut the door when Sherlock scoffed, "You clearly believe I'm unaffected by my own absence."

Mycroft turned and stepped back into the room again. He shook his head. "I don't at all, Sherlock," he said as sweetly as he could, giving his best patronizing smile. "I understand that this is painful for you as well."

"And so why," Sherlock retaliated, "do you think John is the only one harmed in this situation?"

"I don't, Sherlock!" he growled. Softer, though, "I only think John _should_ be the only one harmed."

With that, he closed the door and retreated back to his own bedroom.

* * *

**Sorry for the long wait for this. I honestly kept forgetting to put this up XD And also sorry for like a ton of mistakes, because it's late and I don't have time for proofreading. So yep. Hope you liked this part! **

**If convenient, leave a review. **

**If inconvenient, leave a review anyway.  
**

**:D  
**


	11. Part 11

Mycroft woke early and on time, like he did every morning He showered, dressed, made breakfast, the usual morning routine. His phone buzzed just as he took the first sip of his tea and it had a message from Anthea, saying she would be there soon, and that Rodney would be right behind her.

Rodney was sort of the back-up Anthea. He was quite young (23, if Mycroft remembered correctly) and very eager to get his job done. When he was not being the spare-Anthea, he rather substituted for Anthea's personal assistant. Sometimes Mycroft had too many things to get done that day, so then those other things fell on Anthea, and when she couldn't get it all done in fourteen hours herself, Rodney was called. He was not privy to all of the nation's secrets, unlike Anthea, but he had quite a large amount of confidential information stored within him. He, of course, did not know about this whole Sherlock-Holmes-is-alive business, and that was to remain that way. Anthea would keep him down outside in the car until Mycroft was ready.

Mycroft heard rustling come from Sherlock's bedroom. It stopped a moment but then continued. Sherlock was probably just attempting to get out of bed again, and it was no doubt painful. Mycroft begrudgingly set his cup down and stepped carefully and quietly towards his brother's room. He knocked on the door twice and got no response. He tried again, and again, silence. Mycroft pushed open the door, then, and stepped over the threshold, not sure what he'd find.

Sherlock laid crooked and still in his bed, arms flung out to the side, with his right leg dangling off the edge. His head turned to the side violently, and he sighed deeply before shifting uneasily and falling back in a twisted position. His eyes suddenly opened, and they slid over to catch Mycroft's gaze. They heard the front door open just then, and Anthea's heels clicked across the wooden floors.

"Are you so worried I'll run away in the night, Mycroft?" he asked, voice thick and quiet from sleep. He cleared his throat and pushed the blankets back and attempted to sit up. Mycroft stepped forward and sat on the bed next to Sherlock and grabbed his arm and hoisted it over his shoulder. The younger brother tried to pull away, but Mycroft held him and dragged him down the hall.

Anthea had already placed herself at the kitchen table, scrolling through messages on her phone. She looked up at the brothers as they entered the kitchen and watched as Mycroft dumped Sherlock in a chair. He stretched his leg out and winced at the pain.

Mycroft saw the time and knew he had to leave then. Slipping on his coat and grabbing his umbrella, he said, "Thank you, Anthea, for this."

She smiled graciously. "No trouble, sir."

He nodded to the both of them and escaped out the door.

Mycroft arrived at his office, Rodney right behind him.

"Switch the cameras on, Rodney," he requested, waving him away.

"Yes, sir!" he called out excitedly, rushing off to have it done.

Mycroft had his own flat bugged, actually. The cameras, microphones, everything, though, were shut off when he was home. But when he got into work, he made sure someone turned them on. There were important files hidden away in certain places and he had to make sure no one broke in to steal them. He _could_ have left the cameras off today, since Anthea and Sherlock were there, but then again, Anthea and _Sherlock_ were there. He wanted to keep an eye on his brother and to make sure he didn't force anything on Anthea or cause her problems.

Rodney rushed back a few minutes later, beaming and announcing happily, "They're on, sir!"

"Thank you, Rodney."

He woke up his laptop and opened the camera feeds. Neither one had moved from the position he had left them in. Well, that's not quite true, since a piece of untouched toast sat sad and lonely in front of Sherlock. Anthea had a glass of water by her side.

"Anthea," Sherlock said, the microphone picking it up, "I really do pity you."

She seemed surprised. "Why is that?"

"You're stuck with Mycroft."

Mycroft, in his office, scoffed loudly. Rodney looked up, his smile wide. Mycroft looked back down.

Anthea, though, smirked at Sherlock's response. She folded her hands in front of her and answered, "Mycroft is actually a wonderful boss, Mr. Holmes." She paused and added, "And I'm not just saying that because his surveillance cameras are on, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft laughed as he saw the barely there scowl on his brother's face. Deciding to not eavesdrop too terribly, he muted the sound on the feed and got to work.

Every once and a while Mycroft would turn back to watch his brother and make sure he hadn't set fire to anything yet. They were no longer in the kitchen; Mycroft hit a button and changed the view to show the main living room, where currently, Sherlock sat on the couch again, pointing angrily at the TV and possible shouting obscenities at it. Mycroft had barged into 221B before and found Sherlock doing that; John thought it was funny.

Anthea wasn't there though. Mycroft checked all the rooms and cameras and couldn't find her. Deciding warily that Sherlock had made her go out and do an errand or such for him, Mycroft shook the uneasy feeling that crept up to him suddenly. Rodney appeared to his side, collecting files and smiling brilliantly like always.

"Anything else you need, sir?" he chirped, looking away from his phone to stare at Mycroft. Rodney almost skipped out the room when Mycroft shook his head.

Close to six hours later, Mycroft finally managed to leave his office. Rodney pestered him about a few more files or papers and whatnot on the way to the waiting car. Mycroft said he would deal with it the next day instead. He arrived back to his home quite promptly after that, and when he entered the front door, Anthea slid into view and immediately offered to take his coat and umbrella. She gave him a brief description of what Sherlock had complained about that day, which Mycroft only half-listened to. He passed by Anthea and watched Sherlock absentmindedly bob his bow up and down with two fingers, while the other hand stroked the tight strings of the instrument. Sherlock did not even acknowledge his older brother.

They three settled into a silence while Anthea read messages on her phone, Mycroft signed paper after paper, and Sherlock moaned in agony and boredom. There was, though, through all the silence, a loud and interrupting knock at the front door. Anthea stood first, straightening her skirt and offering to get the door. Mycroft strained to hear who it might be when she opened the door.

Well, he didn't need to strain, per se, since immediately the person on the other side began yelling.

"Where's Mycroft?" John Watson demanded. "I need to see him, Anthea, or whatever your name is, now."

Mycroft instantly switched his gaze to Sherlock. His eyes were wide with terror; his mouth hung open slightly as his breathing quickened. He, too, turned his head and eyes to stare at his brother. Mycroft saw the raw panic and extreme terror in his eyes. They both knew that if John really tried, he could get past Anthea and the whole operation would be blown to bits.

"John, good evening," Anthea responded coolly, stepping back to make sure he didn't enter the flat. "If you'd just wait here I can check with him. He's currently busy."

"Well tell whatever country he's talking to right now to hold on because I need to talk with him."

Mycroft pushed himself from the couch, but on his way to deal with John, Sherlock shot his arm out and gripped Mycroft's wrist tightly.

"Don't let him in, Mycroft," he croaked, breathing heavier still. "He can't see me, do you understand?"

Mycroft wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp and marched firmly to the front door. John's eyes flared a little with anger at the sight of Mycroft, and he sidestepped around Anthea to stand directly in front of Mycroft.

Immediately, John was waving the paper in Mycroft's face. "This is low, you know that?" he muttered lowly, still frowning.

"Give it to me, John."

"No, you gave this to me." He waved it around again. "You should know what this is, Mycroft."

Mycroft furrowed his brows. Trying to get a good enough look at the paper, he saw the ugly scribbles of his brother's penmanship and mentally wrung Sherlock's neck with his bare hands. Outwardly, he sighed and held up his hands, trying to calm John. That didn't do anything though, because John just kept waving the paper; it looked like a ripped up flag, now.

"John, I can assure you," Mycroft began slowly, "I had no idea you would ever receive that."

"So, even though this came in an envelope with stationery that's got your name on it, you still didn't know?" He laughed bleakly. "Right, my mistake. Of course you would have no idea."

"My stationery?"

Mycroft kept a pack in his bedroom. Sherlock must have stolen it, slipped that and the note in an envelope, and told Anthea to give it to John. Despite being unable to walk on his own, he still managed to ruin things. Anthea wouldn't have done this knowingly, so Sherlock must have managed to trick her.

"You're saying you had nothing to do with this?" John demanded after an awkward beat of silence. He clenched his left hand and then unclenched it again.

Mycroft nodded and holding out his hand, he said, "I have been out all day, John. When did you receive this?"

Finally John placed the scrap in Mycroft's outstretched palm. "Just hours ago," he answered. "But your assistant delivered it." He looked pointedly at Anthea, and when Mycroft turned to look at her, too, she looked utterly mortified.

"Sir," she began stuttering suddenly, "I didn't know. I just did what I was asked, I'm so-"

Mycroft held his hand up to stop her, turning his attention back to John. He'd feared that Sherlock had forced her into this, and well, true enough. He pursed his lips and unfolded and smoothed the paper as best he could. On it, in his brother's messy scrawl were the words, "_Egypt was nice._ _I'm sorry I left without telling you. –SH_"

Even Mycroft was confused. He looked to John questioningly, who quickly averted his gaze and stared at the floor and sighed. He silently asked for the paper back, and as Mycroft delicately placed it back in his hand, he asked what the meaning was.

John sighed again but answered after a moment. "Once, just completely out of the blue, he up and left. I didn't hear from him for two days; I seriously thought he…wasn't coming back. But he called once, finally, saying he was in Egypt for, well, he wouldn't say. But I was pretty angry with him for pulling something like that. He…came back maybe a week later, completely casually like he'd never even left. I didn't think he apologized. Apparently he did." John finished lamely, crushing the paper in his hand again.

"Despite being the most difficult being," Mycroft said, "you were his only friend. In his entire existence."

John sighed once more and shook his head. "Just…don't pull this again, do you hear? And stop following me. Your spies are really obvious, you know."

"It's just a safety precaution."

"Right, well, I don't need to be looked after, okay? I think I can handle myself out there. And the fact that it's you trying to 'watch out' for me just makes it that much worse, you know?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

John shrugged, "You couldn't even watch out for your brother, Mycroft."

That really stung. Mycroft gulped visibly and stepped back like he had been wounded. Before he could form a response, Anthea stepped forward and said, "We'll make sure this doesn't happen again." She paused to bite her lip and then added too, "I'm sorry, John."

John nodded in acknowledgement and, much more calmly this time, turned around and descended the stairs and left the building.

Mycroft, after taking a moment to stare dejectedly at the wall in the hallway outside his flat, snapped back into action when he heard Anthea's heels click as she shuffled her feet. He whipped around and probably she thought he was going to scream at her. Instead, Mycroft bypassed her and quite literally stomped to his brother, still lying in frozen agony on the sofa.

Mycroft debated what he wanted to say to his brother. He could go in a number of directions. It could be the over-the-top screaming direction. Or possibly the quiet, calm, but murderous rage pathway. The possibilities were seemingly endless. At least, they were, until Sherlock forced himself up from the couch to try and drag himself past Mycroft. The older Holmes, though, shot his arm out and gripped Sherlock's left bicep tightly.

"Why?" he seethed. "I asked you to leave it alone."

"No," Sherlock corrected haughtily, "you said I should find someone else."

"I didn't mean Anthea!"

"Details, Mycroft."

Anthea stepped around the corner of the hallway and stared at the brothers. Mycroft saw her shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and he finally decided to release Sherlock and pushed him away. Caught off guard, though, Sherlock stumbled and fell to the ground, grimacing at the impact on his tailbone and how the jolt jostled his previous wounds. Mycroft heard Anthea gasp, but she didn't make a move to help Sherlock. The two locked eyes and Mycroft saw hurt and unadulterated plain _sadness _in Sherlock's eyes but Mycroft turned and retreated to his bedroom and slammed his door.

Silence followed for a few seconds, but then Anthea's heels clip-clopped across the wooden floors as she moved over to Sherlock to help him.

* * *

**Awkward it's been like a billion years since I last updated. For that I'm sorry. Although the rest of the story is planned out, so hopefully it'll be smooth the rest of the way. **

**Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, and I'm sorry for any mistakes! :)  
**


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